


Staccato Beats

by TA_Hybrid



Series: Recogiendo Pensamientos [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, At least in the future, Blind Character, Blindness, But the original first one got snatched and expanded on due to discord, Canon compliant... mostly, Department of Afterlife Affairs Workers, Gen, Ghosts, Hauntings, Hell I did not expect the first one to be this, Horror, I dunno about this one, Nosy Reporters, Oneshot collection, Plot Bunnies: Free to Good Home, Since y'know some of these could be expanded on, Who wants some good ole' pain?, so patato pah-tah-to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-02 03:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15788346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TA_Hybrid/pseuds/TA_Hybrid
Summary: Short thoughts and Oneshots based in and around Coco Pixar.Some are happy, some are sad, some a meta and some are just for the hell of it. All are fun and explore the ways this movie can be played with. Prepare yourself, some are even a little bitspooky. Enjoy.





	1. Songbook

_**Songbook** _

It starts subtly, impossible to pin-point precisely. A feeling maybe, a slight chill to the air when he's sitting alone and looking over the songs at his fingertips. Something that's just extra, an echo of a presence, as his fingers crinkle papers and he makes his own notes and alterations, painstakingly copying each song out into a journal of his own.

Painstakingly writing each one down, altering the tunes and the tempos, making them  _more_.

It starts with those copied books disappeared. Each time he'd finish one, go to bed, wake up the next morning and they'd be gone. He wouldn't find them in the drawers, on the table, in the hotel's lost and found, they were just gone.

The music starts after.

Distantly, when he's walking around. If he stops for long enough in a quiet area, he can hear an out of tune strumming. It's quiet, always distant, as though it were coming from far away. But it's ever present. And in the night when he lies under the blankets, he lies there staring up at the roof because he can hear it.

It feels like it's coming closer.

Day by day.

He loses his books, he hears the guitar.

And slowly, there's a shift in the pages of the songbook. Incomplete songs, tunes and melodies left half done change. A new word hear, a string of additional notes there. He doesn't remember ever writing in the songbook for himself. And his hands grip the cover so hard they flush pale. Muscles tightening, as his eyes frantically read over the lyrics.

A childish song.

Something simple, with basic words and an upbeat melody.

A prickle as he reads the lyrics. It's familiar, an old tune, one that takes him back. To old dusty streets and stealing fruit from the stand. To echoes of laughter, and a bright smile. Eyes so wide, so wide and trusting.

" _Do you like it Neto? I wrote it!"_

He snaps the book shut, laying it down on the table, and leaving the room. The offbeat guitar, out of tune with broken notes continues playing. Far away, but now there's something familiar in the discordant beats, and almost absently he hums the familiar old childhood song.

It echoes with the laughter of children in the streets.

He spends days without touching the songbook, leaving the red book where it lies on the table. Not even letting himself look at it. The music, the song follows him. Echoes where he walks, and keeps him awake in the night. He closes his eyes, and feels someone else there. A lanky body, stretched out beside his own.

Light breaths on his cheeks, and when his eyes snap open there's nothing. But the sheets dip, and there's an echo of someone else there.

He sings, he plays, performing with as much gusto as he can. The venues fill up more and more. People flocking to hear him sing, to hear  _his songs_. But there is only so long that he can repeat the same old tunes.

He's running out.

He can only play the ones he knows from heart for so long. And the phantom music knows this. Changing to something softer, a bit mournful almost. As if it knows. When he's finally forced to turn to the book again he hesitates.

There's a twist in his stomach, an uncomfortable tightness, and a chill at his back. It's like there is someone watching, someone waiting. And for the first time, the music stops. The out of tune guitar eerily silent. He takes a breath, licking his lips, eyes darting around, looking into the shadows of the room until he's stretching out a shaking hand.

A hand that hesitates over the red book, before it comes down and picks it up.

There are scratches on the inside cover. Almost looking like claw marks, desperately raking over the material, leaving streaks of grey. As if dusted with charcoal they stain the inside cover, looking like the picture of madness, of desperation, dragged down, and tearing at the material. Leaving fingerprints, pressed in.

There's a shudder at the sight, and he quickly turns the pages. Trying to ignore the familiarity of them. Trying to ignore the way that he can see,  _someone falling, fingers grasping, clawing at the pain_ , he focuses on the feeling of the pages. The rough and course texture of the parchment, the small bumps of the words, ink on the page.

But even that doesn't give him respite.

There are doodles in the pages. Small pictures. Many of them seeming so innocent. A dog here, a chihuhua, a bird. An image of his new manager, with a small little mocking sentence beside them. A horse, a camera.

Small innocent things.

 _But he didn't draw them_. Has never been good at drawing. The guitar music returns and there's a weight at his back. A heaviness in the air that has him lifting his head. Looking around and feeling the looming of the shadows. Leering at him, leering from the darkness. The guitar plays, discordant and broken, a twang, a string that's missing.

He turns the next page, electing to go back to the book.

There's a poem waiting.

It feels incomplete, as if the author stopped somewhere in the middle and lost the words to continue, but it takes him back. Another time another place.  _Hide and run_ , don't bring him home. The words are in a shaky hand, and feel almost like a forgotten friend.

They reflect back at him.

Reminding him of screams, cries he'd rather forget.

_War, War, the enemies lies_

_Revolution, Revolution, hide and lie_

_Praying dark the barrel sings lullaby_

_Beneath dirt childhood cries_

Abruptly there's cold, a rush of chilling air that hits him as though someone had thrown open a window. A window to the frosted night air, the nipping of cold at his nose. There's a whisper in the feeling, a voice he can't quite hear. Soft with words that he cannot for the life of him catch. His head snaps up, whipping around to try and see who's there.

Trying in vain to catch sight of that familiar figure, the one who...

Nothing is there. Nobody is there, he's still alone.

But the window is open. Wind blowing the curtains, chilling the room. And distantly he can hear a warbling hum, not quite right, a little bit off. Low and mournful, a song of grief and longing, a plea is in the sound.

He shudders. Eyes turn back to the songbook, he ignores the whining of his companion in the background, a small chihuahua. He can't.

The guitar is still playing.

He forces himself to ignore the sketches and the poems, looks for what he's seeking instead. Turns the pages and finds those unfinished songs and just-

He feels a release, an ease of the tension. They to have been altered but, these are more normal. Just songs, tunes that have finally been completed. Sure he knows that he didn't touch them. He refuses to write in the book unless he absolutely has to but...

They're  _normal_.

And there are even new ones just beginning. A new song, new songs. And he can sing them. He can use them.

Each time he checks the book, things change. The pictures, the poems, the songs. Lyrics being altered or adjusted. Changing slightly as each day passes. Sometimes big changes, but mostly small ones. A small reordering of notes, a lyric swap.

But they feel like they are shifting, the lyrics echoing times and events he doesn't want to reflect on.

And, he opens the book to find red.

_ I want to go home... _

His breath feels like it catches somewhere in his chest. His heart stopping at the familiar handwriting, the words, and even the colour. There's a tremble, a shiver and he feels something race up his spine.

The book snaps shut, and he takes a desperate breath. Whipping his head around, desperately searching. The shadows stand as a silent witness around him, and even the guitar is silent. There's a coiling in his stomach, a twisting ache, a pain that burns at his throat. Claws on his arms, and the shuddering chill up and down his back.

No, no, it couldn't be.

He swallows, a feeling of bile, a putrid grimness in him. A shaking hand and he opens the book again, hearing a distant whine.

The words are gone, replaced by a mocking poem.

_home, home the songbird cries_

_a lonely mournful sound_

_drink down poison, freedom_

_be free, worms are your companions now_

At least it feels mocking to him. And he can remember a glass in his hand. The chink of two glasses together, one last smile. So, so happy, so grateful and relieved. The burning bitter feeling as a friend walks away never to return.  _Salud!_

A walk down empty streets, only silence and dark houses to stand witness.

_hear the whistle blow, a rattling departure_

_that train leaves, the passage opens_

_a beast curled the shadow door_

_betrayal, they cry_

_a ticket, golden clutched in hand_

_failure, failure, the heartbeat silent_

There's a shrill whistle, and he flinches, his head snapping around, eyes again desperately searching. Trying to see anyone, trying to spot where it's coming from. He's far away from a train station, and yet he can still hear it, the rattling, shuddering sound, the whining of the wheels on the tracks.

A dull thud, lost and buried beneath the sound of departures.

His eyes drift to the next page. There's a new song. The notes are directed to be played as light and happy. Upbeat and fun, but the lyrics. They talk of trains, coming and going, the mystery of where they will take you.

The mystery of the running tracks, he hums lightly under his breath, wondering.

_Take you away, running down that endless track_

_Take you away, but you will always come back_

He shivers. The rapid tempo feels like panic, racing on ahead, even when the song is supposed to be sung with a note of fun. An eager energy. So he stops, slows it down, changes the sound so that it feels more like a longing. Singing as if...

As if...

_ I want to go home... _

A train whistle sounds in the distance. And he shudders, hands curling on the neck of a beautiful white guitar. Across from him, the door swings. A squeaking reminder. It sways, an empty movement, yet if he squints, he can almost see a figure standing there.

A suitcase, guitar case. About to leave forever.

_ When's Papa coming home? Hello! Papa? _

His heart pounds when he sees the picture. A small child, hair braided as she stands in the center of the page. Around her almost playing is the figure of a small chihuahua  _his chihuahua_ , but there is something a little bit off with it. He chooses to ignore the image, instead moving onto the next song.

A slower song, to be played softly, mournfully. He changes the tempo, shifting it into something a little bit more upbeat. Almost fun seeming.

The sketches change mere days later. The girl holding the chihuahua, her eyes sad. Staring out at him, accusing. He growls, staring at the image with a feeling of anger, and yelps when his coffee is too hot, splashing it onto the page.

Behind the girl a skeleton stands, the chihuhua's markings shift, changing to something wrong.  _Something different_ , unfamiliar. And words melt onto the page, another poem.

_they'll be here soon, dogs lie_

_Don't cry dirt fills your lungs_

_a cough, a petal, a drop of poison_

_drink it down, you poured it out_

He shudders, snapping the book shut. Glaring at it. Mere days later he holds his beloved pet, the vet's words far away. A piece of chorizo, sausage that someone left out. Laced, spiked with rat poison.

The irony burns on his tongue.

Almost painful to realize, his own words, a truth that's stark. In the distance he can hear that humming again. A lonely mournful tune accompanied by a guitar, and even more distantly the yapping incessant barking of a chihuahua.

Somehow, it still sounds lonely.

_ I want to go home... _

_ Neto, when are we going home? _

The words burn when he reads them. A firebrand in the back of his head, and he growls, finds his hand digging in the draws. Digging for a pencil, a pen, something, anything to write back with. Demanding words paint themselves across the page, coming with nary a shred of influence from his own head.

Scrawling winding lines over the parchment. Demanding explanation, demanding answers.

He gets pages of back and forth. Words that bleed and run into one another. Repeating sentences.

_ Tell the truth. _

_ I want to go home _

Over and over again. Repeating the same things. Red bleeds, dripping off the page and staining his hands. In horror he writes his own desperate plea. He'd do  _anything_ , just for things to go back to normal.

" _I'd move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo!"_

_Tell the truth Neto!_

_I want to go home..._

That night he dreams. A stage, a performance. There's a figure beside him, and they play, performing together naturally. Fitting together side by side, but something is wrong. The crowd is a group of faceless figures, a mass of people. And his companion sings with a silent voice, as their performance draws to a close he turns to smile.

And is met with a grinning, beaming skull.

He wakes up, soaked, chilled to the bone, a face over his own. Red-tinged eyes gaze deep into his own and he opens his mouth. A scream caught in the back of his throat. Only for two hands to cover his mouth. A shake of the head, and the figure disappears. Leaving him shivering.

That day he has an interview. He feels an extra presence the entire time that he's there. An unseen hand on his shoulders and. The red song book is on the table between him and the interviewer. He sits, that feeling with him during the whole interview.

He sits and he talks.

He speaks of his childhood, of a best friend.  _A practical brother._  Of a songwriter whose life ended tragically short. He tells them of how he sings the songs as a tribute, merely to keep part of him alive.

He can also still hear that guitar.

Only later, watching the interview play does he actually see the shadow. Accusatory eyes, a scowl on their face. He told the truth, but not the truth that they wanted. The eyes, his attention keeps going back to them. Because they're not just accusatory, but they're sad. Disappointed. As if they expected better.

Still. Just talking about him seems to have eased it a little bit.

The presence backs off. Poems becoming rarer, the sketches fewer and farther between one another. But when he settles down in bed, he can hear the tune of a lullaby. A song sung softly and gently in a man's low voice.

But echoing behind it, there's the voice of a child.

" _Tio Neto, when's papa coming home?"_

He stares at the girl in his dreams. She stands there holding the book, and always asks that question. Behind her, shrouded in the shadows is a tall figure. A gangly, stretched thin figure. White, seen through a pale outline.

Those eyes.

When he wakes up he feels cold, a chill that seeps through even the layers and layers of blankets. Starving off even the heat from the flames in the hearth. And slowly, there are scratches, marks, and he finds himself feeling someone curled up there with him. He can't see them, he never sees them.

In other dreams he sees someone, a tall man. Facing away from him. Their back is all that he can see. In their hands are two cases. One for belongings the other a guitar case. Distantly he can hear a broken tune, played on a busted guitar. Someone is singing, words that he can't hear, sounds that just echo.

He stumbles, feet sinking into something sticky, a rising red mess around his feet, pulling him, hands reaching up. Grasping clawing, and he struggles, forcing himself forwards. Reaching for the man.

There're demands on his lips, demands that die as the man's form  _shifts,_  clothing loosely hanging on a frame suddenly much thiner.

He can see white, chipped and faded, but still clearly white.

Bones.

The man's head turns slightly to him, a warped smile, twisted and broken. Too sharp.

" _Hate me if you want... I'm going home"_

"I can't do this without you Hector! I need your songs!"

Words, snatches of conversations echo between them. And he bows his head, disappearing in a flurry of petals. A child steps out of them. Tears tracking down her face, that red bleeding book in her hands. The tears fade from clear to red.

Pooling down her cheeks as she looks up at him, eyes bleeding from brown into pure black. Losing any and all spark in them. Her voice when she speaks echoes.

" _When's papa coming home Tio Neto? When's he coming home?"_

"Last I saw him, he was walking away... to the train station!"

_ "Neto, tell the truth!" _

He wakes up, a weight on his chest. Air harshly refusing to fill his lungs. A desperate thrill of fear as he can't move. Someone is singing, that lullaby, and the guitar is still playing, a discordant tune. He can hear whining, a small sound beneath it all. But he can't move.

Something sits on the bed, dipping it with their weight and the thing hums. A distant sad tune.

He moves, suddenly released, and scrambles, stumbling, shambling. He lands on the floor, air pushed out of him and huffs out a breath before pushing himself up. Distantly he can hear footsteps, someone talking in another room, calling if he wants anything.

He wants to chase it.

But that  _voice_ , there's the sound of a pencil scratching against parchment, and he turns slowly. Seeing the songbook at the desk. There's red pooling around it, staining the wood and he almost doesn't want to walk towards it.

He almost doesn't want to look. But his foot move him, he stands, and looks down, there's an entire page. It's practically all red. Bleeding red. The same sentence, getting more and more frantic, more desperate seeming, more, and more pleading.

_ tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the 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truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth _

_ Tell the truth Neto, por favor _

He swallows. But he  _can't_. He talks about a family, next. More tales. Friendship, brotherhood. The betrayal remains tucked away, chained in his heart. The key is right there. When that question is asked. He can hear someone humming, a distant morbid tune.

"Señor, do you know how Hector Rivera died?"

"I believe it was food poisoning"

The key is dropped. Falling and shattering, the chains becoming tight around his heart. A voice whispers in his ear. A question, a plea.

_ Neto, let's go home... _

The pages become numbered. Starting at thirty, and counting down each day. Each one with a picture. Children playing, children running. A crying child. Four chihuahuas in a pile, sleeping. Each day the images get slightly darker, some of them with poems some of them without.

It reaches the number one.

A picture of a bell, and he's inside it. Red bleeds off the page. Splattered around the picture, and his heart pounds. A dizzy feeling in his head as he reads the poem on the page.

_ring, ring does the church bell sing_

_midnight, midday, we call you now to pray_

_come confess, we will do the rest_

_ring, ring does the church bell sing_

_and down comes the guillotine_

That day the presence seems all the closer. He finds things moved, the out of tune guitar ever present and that song sung. A lullaby, a tune that he knows. In his sleep he sees Hector, a skeleton once more. Looking brighter this time, but still looking at him with accusing eyes. Eyes that blame.

"You made me do it!" he hisses. And the skeletal representation of his friend looks away, eyes off to the side looking at. His hands fist, there, in the distance are two.

He wakes up and checks the songbook.

There's Hector, arms wide, welcoming.

_ Neto, Welcome HOME! _

He's so relieved, that it's just a picture of Hector, that he fails to take it in completely. It's only when he's standing beneath a bell, singing one last note that the image flashes in his head again. The hidden zero starkly clear.

There's a snapping sound, a dull clang,  _pain_.

He wakes up, people are all around him. There're explanations, sitting in a room, paperwork, a train. And then he's stumbling off the train, and there's a familiar face waiting for him. Standing there grinning, a wide, wide smile, with four brightly coloured and patterned chihuahuas around him. It's Hector.

He almost wants to laugh.

He almost does laugh, the taller man's eyes lighting up, body trembling as he walks over.

"Ernesto!" the grin seems to widen. "Welcome!" his friend gestures, before dragging him along. He seems oblivious talking rapidly and explaining things. Talking about memory, being greeted in the streets. And pulling Ernesto until they reach a mansion. A large, fancy building. "Welcome home Ernesto!" Hector says, that  _grin_  still present. "I'm glad you told people  _the truth_..."

There's an odd feeling, a prickle in the air, but Hector's leaving. Moving away further into the mansion. It's almost like he didn't notice. And distantly, as his friend turns to him, eyes looking almost concerned...

Ernesto can hear a mournful sounding guitar...


	2. Chihuahua

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everytime Ernesto makes a bad decision... Another chihuahua appears.
> 
> This is basically a joke, also featuring Rico the disaster zone reporter.

"Carla! Carla!" There's a crash from somewhere around a corner, and a quiet groan that follows. The bangle covered skeleton being addressed merely raises her head, her tiny peeping alebrije cheerfully singing out in greeting even as she smiles.

"You sound excited Rico!" she says, voice somewhat dreamy. There's another crash, a clatter and a cry that could almost be classed as painful. Before seconds later someone scrambles into the room, a camera clear on their back, clothing dishevelled, messy in the way that showed he had likely run all the way there.

"Carla! I got an exclusive!" he beams at her, and she raises her head, her alebrije falling silent, as she squints at him. "This year's Dia de Muertos! The Sunrise Spectacular, that Party!" he eagerly waves his hands around, "I got an invite!"

"They won't let you in with your camera Rico..."

"They will!" Rico says, spinning around. "If not, I'll sneak in! But I got an exclusive invite. From Señor De la Cruz himself!" he pats himself down for a moment, excitedly searching for something, there's a brief flash of panic in two differently coloured eyes before he finds what he's looking for and lets out a relieved huff of air. "Look see!" he shoves a slip of paper into her face and Carla leans back slightly, squinting at the words.

It takes her a few moments, a second read before there's a huge grin blooming across her face.

"Ooh, he wants you to interview his chihuahuas..."

"How many of them are there now?" Rico shoots back, before pausing. "Any theories on that Carla? I haven't been able to gather anything, and while I've got the invite, it's considered... 'impolite' to ask him about that." He huffs for a moment, tucking the invite back away into his pocket. There's a particular glint in his friend's eyes, and he knows exactly what kind of fox he's just unleashed.

But he's more than willing to listen as she babbles on and on about her theories.

* * *

It's overwhelming to be in a place with so many people. Sure he's been in crowds before, he's been among other people before but there's so much energy in the air. So many people talking and laughing, conversing among themselves about the events in their lives, and the music. The music isn't what he would have expected from a party hosted by such a famous musician...

A musician who he hasn't been able to-

There's a loud ringing out sound and his camera is raised straight away as he spins around and, there's a child standing high over everyone, a guitar in hand. The boy strums easily and starts to play a familiar tune, walking down and grinning and he finds himself moving forwards, desperate to keep the camera on the boy. Until he's among those gasping, horrified and shocked when the bot plunges into the water.

"Niño!" he finds himself calling, rushing forwards. Only it's a move that's not necessary. Without missing a single beat, Señor De la Cruz is across the room, diving into the pool and saving the child. Pulling him out and there's a thrill of shock, his jaw drops as the boy coughs and dripping off his face...

Makeup? Paint, a false skeleton face. He doesn't hear the boy's words. He doesn't hear what the child is assuming, but he does here Ernesto's showboating of the boy. Speaking out loud and, there's a small yap. A flash, a break in the air and he spins his camera around, focusing on the new chihuahua that's just appeared.

Well, that's suspicious.

There's a hint of mystery in the air, so he lowers his head slightly, adjusts his camera and follows after them. Just barely remaining behind them. Following along, and everytime Ernesto parades the boy around, pointing him out as his great-great grandson.

Another Chihuahua.

* * *

Angel, Angel, Angel!

He has to hold himself back, hidden just barely behind a pillar at the figure who appears. Most of the crowd has left, and there are so many chihuahuas, he's lost track of how many have appeared, how many there were originally, but it doesn't matter. Not now, not when a figure he knows has appeared, familiar even in a skirt and top disguised and dressed up as Frida Kahlo. He knows his angel.

Still he has to hold himself back from trotting out, shifting and balancing his camera awkwardly, peeking out with wide eyes to observe the confrontation, to take in what's happening and.

"Oh... Carla wasn't wrong..." one of her wilder theories, regarding Ernesto's lack of new songs, but still. "Not quite right but..." he stills, Ernesto's looking in his direction, not really his gaze focused on a photo but still, and there's something else. His angel is looking at a screen, he raises his head, watching the familiar scene, perplexed it's not that-

"That night, Ernesto. The night I left..." he freezes as he watches, the realization, the tale, there's a weight in his ribs, a stiffness in his hands. The tale of a  _murder_ , it's familiar but not, an echo, but not, and there's a choking twist on his cervical vertebrae, it's like he's being grasped around the throat as he listens.

It's like he's being choked.

And the howl of rage, pain, betrayal. It's a moment that he feels lucky to catch on camera, and yet following right after. Security personal, guards and... He backs away, another two chihuahuas appearing, yapping incessantly at the one they're supposed to guide who looks up and-

He bolts, turning around and running. His camera's slung across his back, he needs to-

Someone catches him by his camera and he yelps, jerking in their grasp. Straining as he's pulled back, feet leaving the ground. Footsteps echo and Señor De la Cruz comes around to stand in front of him, those golden shaded eyes looking almost regretful as he comes to stand easily in front of him while he's held dangling by one of the man's Guards.

"I apologize Ricardo..." Ernesto says, voice smooth and rolling. "But you must surely be aware, I can't just let you tell the world about what you've seen..." his ribcage heaves at the man's words, a horrific chill stilling his bones. "Take care of him, he's clearly had far too an exciting night..."

"You won't get away with this!" he screams as the man drags him away, there's another chihuahua, appearing easily in the older man's grasp. And Ernesto merely gives him a charming grin, a look that Rico can't quite place. It's the kind of charm that sends shivers down his spine.

"Oh... but Ricardo... I already have. Have a nice trip!"

The slamming of the doors in so final, and he doesn't get to scream as he's tossed down into a sinkhole. Slamming luckily into solid ground rather than the water mere centimetres away...

"Rico?"

"Señor Angel!" his head snaps up, that voice familiar, and edged with worry, and also. "Niño... Lo siento... I, I must apologize..." he bows his head, apologetic. But before he can say anything more, there's a chilling golden-amber flash through the other man's bones and Rico has to hold back from screaming... the revelations that follow. He's... rather glad that they didn't think to take his camera.

This  _is_ a story.

And when there's a rush of wings overhead, he's only sure that it's going to get more impressive as things unfold.

Maybe being caught this time... won't end as badly as the last few times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, I consider myself only a partial owner of Rico, since he wouldn't have become such a big OC without Dara at the Discord Server spurring me on. And Carla is more of a Discord generated Group OC than my creation, so she's generally a Coco Locos OC.
> 
> But yay! They're appearing in something and I love both these disaster OCs.


	3. Snapshots of Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Department Worker's take on things.

It's a jolt to step through that door, he wasn't entirely sure what had happened. He'd only known that the horrible feeling, that twisting rising panic had been so much worse throughout the day than any day previous. He'd only known that he had to calm down, had to find some way to get rid of the pressure feeling in his chest, in his throat, in his head. So he'd grabbed his medication from off his side table.

How many had he taken? Two, three, more?

However many it was it was too many. There had been a fog that descended over him, a wave of tired nausea, he'd dropped down, and then there was the door. Stepping through is like a jolt, a burst of cold, horror and shock, there are people around him, but they're not people. Skeletons.

He bolts himself to the side, fighting back a rising scream, there's a pounding feeling in his chest as it constricts and he pulls at his shirt, eyes wide, terrified of those who try to approach him. No, no, no, no! He shakes his head, whole body trembling, ice creeping into his body, a shuddering rattle echoing, and he shakes his hands, shakes his head, desperately trying to indicate for them to not approach-

White.

The scream tears out. Flailing limbs, denials spewing forth and flying free. There are voices around him, arms reaching for him and he shouts, screaming. Pulling away and back, ready to bolt. Hands catch and hold him and that feeling spikes, a sharp constriction in his chest, short bursts of breath as he begins to hyperventilate, eyes wide and terrified and...

Something is poured into his mouth, everything slows down. The panic melts away, falling behind some veil and he can  _breathe_. He wants to panic more, he wants to scream and pull away, but the feelings are distant, murky as though under water. It's a familiar feeling, like when he takes his medication and it works. But being forced into that state is  _not pleasant_.

There's a wash of voices around him, he's moved along. A blue light, feeling of judgement. A train... He steps off the train and the effect dulls, panic breaking through once more. There are skeletons in Officer Uniforms around, skeletons in blue uniforms, and all he can think is a staticky sensation of wanting to go back to the calmness of a wash of tranquilizer, but nobody will give him that.

Maybe he could run.

Run, run, run, off into the wilderness and never face anyone ever-

"Hola Señor!" the voice is soft, kind. And he stills, panic momentarily cooling as his eyes search for the one speaking. "My name is Fran, I'm here to help. What's your name?" his eyes find the one speaking, and he has the urge to lick his lips. An urge that can't be carried out any longer... Still he manages to break through the panic to swallow and give an answer.

"J-José, José Santos..."

* * *

The first time José meets Héctor is upon arrival.

Héctor is  _his_  arrival and it's absolute madness. Last month of the year, and while it's not a particularly busy day according to his coworkers, it's still overwhelming. He's basically left to his own devices only able to fetch Héctor from that 'scan room' and then he's expected to walk him through paperwork. Barely three short years of training is not enough when it comes to this. So he just kind of sits in the room and observes the young man work through the paperwork.

Afterwards it's just, guiding him to get his portrait done, handing him his ticket and... José freezes unsure of what he's supposed to do in regards to the paperwork. Héctor's his  _first_ arrival. His first arrival and there's a moment of overwhelming chills that he might wind up being his  _only_  arrival when José comes to the realization that he hasn't got a clue about what he's supposed to do with the paperwork.

He's handed off the necessary articles to the conductor already, but what of the rest?

What's he supposed to do with it? Somehow, he manages to file it away, and he can only cross his fingers and pray that it's all done correctly. As he turns to leave the room something catches his eyes, he pauses. There's... no real reason to read that particular set of extra paperwork. But still he finds himself flipping open the file.

 _It's a nightmare_.

He snaps it back shut, a coil in his ribs, a chill down his spines, an ache. He leaves early, boarding the next train back home. He arrives there to yet more chaos, people trying to organize new arrivals, get them reunited with their families and he...

He ignores it, pushing his way through the throng of people, and breaking out into the streets. A shrill whistle, a call. "Magdalena" he calls and a small shape speeds at him. His alebrije, a tiny bunny. There's some relief to the bunny's presence, but he merely scoops them up, before continuing to flee.

It's only once he's home, safe in his house that he gives himself the chance to collapse. A rising panic, an anxiety. Because he knows that he should inform someone, but there was no reason to check that paperwork. He could get in trouble, he could, he buries his skull in his hands and lets out a miserable groan.

The discrepancy goes unreported.

* * *

Outside of his job at the Terminal José tended to keep mostly to himself. He didn't like going outside if he didn't have to, finding the world as a whole was still far, far too overwhelming, so he mostly kept to himself in his secluded home. He had Magdalena and that would be enough. It echoes his original life, locking himself away from people and places just to escape that ever present fear.

That chill that chased him, and that crept into his every thought. Now he can take as much of his medication as he sees fit, but that leaves him apathetic and distracted. And when he comes back down from it...

There's a sharp knock at his door. He flings the door open, ready to yell-

Oh... Okay, his thoughts halt when he meets those red-orange-purple tinted hazel-brown eyes. Familiar messy hair and markings, but he still tilts his head back and up to look at the man, his mind crashing into a wall for a moment. Just dumbstruck, he doesn't usually meet people's eyes, and these ones. There's so much in them, like all eyes, but the colours.

"H-hola?" it comes out more as a question, before he shakes himself out of the daze, his brow-ridge pulls in and he narrows his eyes. Taking in a familiar blush suit, a familiar figure. Now that he's gotten past the crash. "Héctor? What do you want?" He's not a Grief Counsellor, he's a Processing Agent, two completely different-

"I was just wondering-"

"No!"

There's a beat, the man on the other side of his doorway struck silent for a moment before spluttering. And José can only sigh, one hand rubbing over his forehead as he leans against his open door. Héctor looks like he's about to try again, already opening his mouth ready to speak.

"Whatever it is... No!"

"B-but you can at least-"

"No!" José's voice is just barely a snap. "Whatever you're planning, at least  _try_  to do it legally first... There're more enough options!" several different options after all, surely Héctor could at least try going through the legal options first before whatever scheme he has planned. There's a pause, the younger man looking uncomfortable, fiddling slightly with his jacket's sleeve before grasping his arm just above the wrist.

"Uh... A-About that..." there's an awkward air between them that leaves him shuffling uneasily. A familiar prickling feeling creeping up his spine, even as Héctor shuffles, eyes darting away, not quite able to meet his anymore. "I... uh was hoping you'd know what options I actually have..." there's a pause.

José has to struggle to actually understand for a moment, because why would.

"Don't... don't you have a grief counsellor?" he eventually asks at length and Héctor gives a small flinch, a movement that he can kind of understand.

"I uh... don't think that Èric is willing to talk to me at the moment..." Héctor shuffles again, and he frowns. Brow-ridges pulling together trying to think of what Héctor could have possibly- Oh wait, he grimaces, realization striking him. Yeah, that would be an issue.

"Well... what about Eneida?" Héctor makes such an awkward sound that he finds himself wincing, automatically knowing the answer. So one hand slides down the front of his skull and he groans again. "How, No! Wait, I don't want to know..." he waves his hands dismissing Héctor's answer before it can even come and letting out a sigh. He looks back into his house, nervously considering his options.

Dia de Muertos is only a few weeks away, a few short weeks.

He sighs, already resigning himself to the chaos, and as Héctor gives him such a relieved and grateful look. There's a twist deep in his non-existent stomach, a fluttering weight in his ribcage, a tightness around his cervical vertebrae. He should tell Héctor that truth at least, he should-

He doesn't, he just talks with Héctor about the various options that there are at the Department that he could at least  _try_.

* * *

José about has a phantom heart-attack the first time he decides to go on a Celebrity tour one Dia de Muertos rather than visit his family and there's Héctor as the Guide. It's awkward for a beat before he just slumps into one of the free seats.

And then Héctor's pulling out an accordion. The tour all things considered is actually nice. Héctor explaining things with a certain air that makes it easy to just listen to. Even if there is still that distant detachment, that subtle thread that makes it feel boring, there's just some other thing in the way he speaks that makes you listen. A background sound really. Still, he wouldn't recommend it to anyone.

It's... a tour.

Still he stays afterwards and gives Héctor a look.

"What?" the musician asks, awkwardly grinning at him.

"Staying out of trouble?" he asks and Héctor's grin gets just that slightest bit mischievous, just that slight edge. He rolls his eyes, "just don't break anything!"

A few hours later and he feels like he should have been more specific in regards to that statement. Sure nothing is broken... but that barely  _matters_. Because Héctor has broken something, himself. At least he's still remembered enough for the moment that it will heal, but José still finds himself going over to where he knows that the other skeleton lives just to give him a disapproving look.

Disappointed.

* * *

He's actually taking a substitute shift at the bridge the next time he sees Héctor. Trying to sneak by hidden in a  _bin_  of all things. He can't comprehend what Héctor things that it's going to solve, so he just shakes his head, and watches as Héctor gets caught.

It's just one of the few times he ever sees Héctor's crossing antics. The next is a good few years later, watching the musician attempt to rocket through on a bicycle. Failure came because he had a heart.

And then there was the pain of 1942. José watches as Héctor stumbles in, watches as he observes someone else arriving. A new arrival, a newly dead celebrity. A whole lot of fuss and bother. José just sticks with his post. Across from him is another agent, who apologetically shakes her head as Héctor stands there, a desperate attempt no tricks or traps.

A few hours later and he's back again, trying again.

* * *

"Are you really going to try and  _dig_  your way across?" José's voice is incredulous when he stumbles upon Héctor on one of his walks in the more flowery zone of the jungle. It's... also someone else's garden, but to be fair, most of the jungle is considered a garden by the person who he's thinking of.

As it is, where he is Héctor stiffens, his head snapping up and around, that caught look crossing his face. He snorts at the musician's expression, shaking his head.

"No... I'm genuinely curious, are you really going to try and  _dig_  your way across Héctor?"

"Uh... well you see José..." There's dirt staining the man's bones, that awkward shuffle, the arm-wrist grab.

"Let me help... I want to see if it actually works..." there's an extra shovel somewhere-

Hours later when they're both filling the hole back in and José's almost certain that his blind gardener friend actually managed to crack his skull does he regret that decision. But they had dug down fairly far before they'd been found. It was an experience, but not one he's planning on repeating.

He's not going to help again.

* * *

José did not plan on being a shoulder to cry on. But when one night there's a frantic pounding at his door, he stumbles out. Magdalena lets out a grumpy chatter, before hopping out of his way. He stumbles down his own halls still wrapped up in a blanket, until he's bleerily opening his front door. Ready to demand-

And he's wrapped up in a desperate embrace by a near wailing skeleton. He freezes, a flare of  _what do I do? What do I do?_ going through him at rapid speed. A constricting in his chest, his body completely stiff. He doesn't know how to react, and the worst part is he can vaguely understand what the other is saying through their upset babbling.

Just barely, vaguely.

Something about a wife, a reunion,  _rejection_ , what did they do wrong?

He doesn't know what to do, this isn't something he has training for, and also he's beginning to rapidly breathe. Because the other is  _far too close_. Too close, and while the embrace is a desperate seeking comfort one... it's a bit much. What does he do? There are tears, shining eyes, his own eyes dart before...

"I... have a music room..." his voice runs on ahead. "Maybe... I could play something, let's calm down, Si..." music seems like it's the wrong option. The other shudders, releases him and pulls back. A horrible, horrible pain on that face, twisting up into those shifting eyes and José wants to reach out, but instead pulls himself back, staring.

"N-no... No Music... No more music..." Héctor shakes his head, desperately speaking. "That's... that's what she... No!" and he bolts.

Something in him hurts seeing the other flee. And he moves into his own music room, and just stares. He wraps his arms around his legs and stares, trying to understand what could have happened, even though Héctor had slowed down, and said he wasn't a musician anymore... that was the first full on-

Magdalena brings him his medication, and he just fiddles with the bottle for a long time.

* * *

José swears that he will never go on a cruise again. Luxury or not, Héctor's plan had been, relatively simple. Go down to La Abuela del Lago's cruise and steal the boat to try and get across with. José hasn't got a clue why he agreed to help, but never again. Almost getting eaten alive by a giant Salamander-anaconda-axolotl alebrije. As it was Héctor  _did_  get eaten.

He managed to get himself back out, but that was a phantom-heart attack that José really didn't need. And trying frantically to steer the boat when there was a giant person-eating alebrije after them was not fun. Héctor's crazy laughter was not helping. He wasn't sure if it was the former musician's response to the stress, or just from the adrenalin, but it  _didn't help_.

He swears when the alebrije rises up from the depths again, almost ramming into them, trying to chomp them right off the deck of the boat. When they hit land he collapses with such relief. Only to stiffen as Abuela del Lago herself stood there and looked at them both with a look he can't quite read.

There's something dangerous in her gaze. Héctor's laughter stops. The younger skeleton staring at her with wide eyes. There's a rising chill, she's just looking at them, before a sickeningly sweet smile crosses her face. A softening of her features, and there's a wrongness about it, an itch in the back of his cranium. He can't. José bolts when she speaks, sweetly offering them some kind of snack.

He's not sticking around.

For whatever reason, Héctor doesn't follow. And José distantly hears him offering an excuse.

It takes him another month to see Héctor again, who looks a little bit shaken and when he demands an explanation the former musician stares at him for a moment before shaking his head. The title he calls the lady though, that makes him sharply inhale. The whispers start only a short while later, and not just because of her Horror Cruises.

"La Bruja del Lago" the Witch of the Lake.

* * *

Héctor shows up another time absolutely shaken. Trembling on his doorstep, and when he lets the younger man in he just crumples. Magdalena flops into his lap and Héctor sits there, blankly staring ahead and at the wall. He can't quite bring himself to ask, there's a twist in his bones a chill down his spin. An uncomfortable curling sense of unease, and he can't bring himself to ask Héctor what's shaken him so badly.

He finds out anyway.

"They hurt him José..." the voice is soft. "I don't think that I've ever seen Carla look actually worried... not just... you know..." he awkwardly shrugs and José grimaces at that name. He's familiar with Carla but.

"She... was worried?" he wasn't aware that she had someone to be worried about, as far as anyone's aware Carla Day is just... Carla. Off on her own and creating conspiracies out of thin air. Just as much of a legend as Héctor, as the celebrities, but for being as zany as she is. Theories upon theories.

"Si..." Héctor nods his head, more automatic than anything else. "A reporter kid... Uh, Ricardo Méndez-"

"Rico?" José snaps to attention, familiar with the reporter, and not just from his rather popular and well researched articles and show segments. Héctor nods his head, and there's a pained twist of his expression. Magdalena leans further into the yellowed skeleton as he curls in on himself. "What..."

"I found him José..." Héctor's voice is soft, almost broken in a way. "I... he wanted to go to Carla, so I took him there but..." he doesn't ever get the full story, but he doesn't want to. A few weeks later and the only difference he can find is that Rico's keeping his non-existent nose that little bit cleaner.

Sticking a bit more on the safe side.

José worries.

* * *

A flower cart, various different disguises. The attempts get worse and worse, but before Dia de Muertos 2017 José wakes up to a three times repeated knock on his door. He opens up to see Héctor, standing there awkwardly nervously. The man asks him a favour, a task that he dreads. Has dreaded for years.

In the end, he really is Héctor's case worker isn't he?

The next day goes by in a daze. José just waiting to hear the news. And barely able to focus. He's so panicked and nervous he almost fails to turn on his television to just see-

Ernesto is tossed into a bell. The revelation of a murder, a  _living boy!_  That truth that José has known for years is played out on the screen. And... He's also forced to watch as that golden-amber glow shines on a familiar figure, the final death caught live...

Until. It. Stops.

José can't help the weight that lifts off his shoulders, he can't help the pure relief to see that Héctor hasn't faded. That the murdered man hasn't disappeared forever another lost memory and face among thousands. He takes his medication, straightens out his uniform and prepares to  _finally_ tell his own truth.

After all, there is no way this isn't going to go to trial.

Evidence on camera or  _not._

* * *

The next year, José makes sure that he can be at the Marigold Grand Central Station, he makes sure that he can be there to see. He settles himself in, and peers over at Helena's terminal. He watches, eyes focused as Héctor steps up, so nervous. So unsure. And when he's let through...

There is no greater feeling, tilting his hat to Héctor as he leaves.

Finally, after ninety-six years of separation, ninety-five year of failed Dia de Muertos celebrations... it's just nice to see him get a happy ending.


	4. Empty Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he opens his eyes, the world remains dark. AU/UA

 

It's a murky darkness that greets him. The pain long having since faded, but still with those jolting, agonizing echoes. He wants to curl back around, wrap his arms around where his stomach is and curl. He wants to hold himself against the last few remaining tremors. But the pain is just echoes, a phantom.

It's murky darkness that surrounds him.

His eyes are wide open. But the world remains dark. So it's more a light feathery feeling that draws him forwards. A distant squeaking, and something that lands in his hair. He pauses, feet unsure of which direction to take. There's another feather light feeling on his face, it feels almost like the slight brush of light on his skin.

So he follows that.

He follows until he runs up against an obstacle. Hands fumble in the shadows. Feeling the rough woody texture and sliding across until it finds a handle. A door. He hesitates for a moment, not sure if he really should. He twists the handle, pulling it down and pushes the door open. There's a lingering moment, a hesitance before he steps forwards.

Feet shuffling.

It's a bustling hub around him. Noise coming from all directions, scratching of quills on paper, voices calling, the shifting of sheets, tapping of footsteps, and the squeaking of trolley wheels. Clicks, whistles, voices that crash into each other and distract. He presses himself backwards, slamming against a wall and staring wide eyed into the darkness.

There's too much noise.

Too much, he lets out a small whine, wondering why he's still seeing darkness. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, raises his hands up to clap over. Nothing? There's a new thrill of something that runs through him, and frantically his hands press on the area, feeling a distinct lack of ears, and there's a funny hard sensation, he shifts them, feeling out his own face and only finding that same hard material, kind of course and rough and-

His nose is missing, he has holes to dip in near where his eyes are supposed to be and-

"Señor, por favor cálmese." a voice calls and he winces, whole body shuddering. "Señor, Señor?" he shakes his head, desperately fearful. Hands pressing down now, frantically seeking any sign that it's just a mask or something that's...

"W-what happened?" he finds his voice, it's rough and choked. And kind of hurts. "Wh-why am I-"

"A skeleton?" he shivers at the question. "lo siento señor. I'm afraid that you are dead." he shakes his head again, opening his eyes and staring blankly through murky shades in the direction of the voice. There's an intake a breath, a movement and he flinches back. There's a brush of air over his face and he screws it up uncomfortable. "Señor..." there's a pause "can you tell me what you're seeing right now?"

"I-" he hesitates, before pulling tighter to himself. Curling against the wall. "Lo siento... only darkness..."

There's only silence that follows.

* * *

He's not used to stumbling around. Reaching desperately for some kind of stability. He still has his suit, his charro as achingly familiar as anything else. But beyond that, he has nothing to cling to. He's also bounced around to several different people, each in quick succession and quickly finds himself lost. Every time he's called in it's a new voice, a new name.

It's lonely.

And at night when he lies staring up into the darkness there's a deeper ache that seeps through his every bone. A pain that shudders through him and leaves silent tears staining his cheekbones. He wants to roll over and be able to reach out and be assured that his wife is there. He wants to roll over and find someone who'll hold him and keep him safe. He wants his  _hermano_. He wants to go home.

He cries most nights.

Cries until there's nothing left but the empty space.

"Héctor... this is Lydia Espino!" he sits in a hard chair, hands in his lap. Folded together and he doesn't bother looking up. It's not like it would make much of a difference. He pulls slightly tighter as someone else steps into the room, he can hear the tapping of a staff against the ground, slow shuffling steps.

And yet, the sound is almost purposefully loud. He wears his lip for a moment, wondering, before he shifts, turning his head in that direction. There's a grunt, something that might be approval, before the steps move around to in front of him and he straightens himself up.

"Hola niño!" a rough voice says, and he feels her take his hand into one of her own. He curls it automatically, shaking and she lets out a small laugh, low and somewhat familiar. "Well then, let's see if we can't get you settled in properly. And somewhere safe!"

"I am safe!" he grumbles as she releases his hand and there's a small laugh, automatic.

"Maybe niño, maybe. But you could definitely be safer!" he feels her leave the room and huffs. He's already sure she's just going to be another one who-

He's moving, jolting up and to the side without a thought or moment's hesitation something smashes into the chair he'd been on seconds previous, the crackling sound of wood. A shattering groan and creak, the click of fallen pieces. He growls, head snapping around, he spins around, moving backwards.

Only to topple, the bed right there.

"Quick reflexes niño, good instincts! We can build on these" he blinks, confusedly looking around. Straining to get any sense of. A hand presses on the top of his skull, gentle phalanges running through his hair. "We can build on this!"

* * *

His awareness builds slowly. Paying attention to what he can sort of sense around him, what he can hear and smell. Small things that build up and tell him what's going on. It's tricky sometimes, but the biggest help is the course. He slowly becomes surer with his steps. Able to navigate more in the crowds without worrying about needing a hand to lead him.

Able to navigate without worry about running into someone.

And he's got a small companion. That presence from the passage. Sitting up in his hair more often than not, letting out sounds of guidance. Something that he's learnt to distinguish between. He's never quite as sure as he once was, and there are still many problems.

He can't get a job.

No one's willing to hire him. He wonders what his eyes must look like now. Wonders whenever someone gasps seeing them. Wonders when he's turned away so often, chased off almost. But he's got a home to return to once more.

Lydia takes care of him.

And, he helps out around the hacienda as best he can. Clearing things, keeping track of the youngest Espino Familia members. Watching out for them. It's different, but he learns to adjust and prepares himself. Soon enough he'll get to cross over and while he won't be able to see them. He looks forwards to the day he can go home.

Marigolds have a kind of musky smell. Something nostalgic being evoked and a warmth blooms behind his ribcage. He waits almost too eagerly in the line, looking forwards and already trying to imagine what it would be like being able to cross over that bridge. He can't see it, but he's had it described to him.

Like a waterfall of marigolds, blooming in arches that lead back to the Land of the Living. A sea of golden-amber flowers that glow and promise safe passage home. Falling down into the abyss of nothing, but still standing. Holding everyone who's going to cross.

He can't wait to go home.

So it's like a drop in the river when he's guided forwards and there's a gasp. A quiet apology, and he's lead away. In the opposite direction to where he understands that the bridge is. Up in his hair, there's an angry squeaking, and he furrows his brow.

"Mama Lydia?" his voice sounds shaky, a pain in his ribcage. "Mama Lydia... isn't the bridge-"

"Lo siento Teto..."

Something breaks that day, and he's not sure what it is. He can only let her lead him away.

* * *

"Héctor!" he winces, feet dangling off the dock and into the abyss. Raising his head up and pushing a grin to his face. He knows that voice and is already dreading the steps that storm after it. Around him he can hear people wincing. Shuffling away and leaving him. "What are you doing down here! You know it's dangerous!"

He pushes himself up, getting his feet under him and on the wood of the dock.

"Lydia..."

"Don't even start!" she snaps, and he feels his arms drop back down. Rubbing at his arm, a familiar gesture. He doesn't need to look to know that she's got her lips pursed and is not happy with him. "You can't be wandering down here! What if you fell off the docks? Or missed the steps? You know it's dangerous. Especially for you!"

"Sí, Mama Lydia..." he lowers his head. Feeling his eyes dart uselessly, even though he knows. It's not going to help. "I understand but-"

"Uh, uh, uh! Don't just say Sí and that you understand!" her voice is a cutting blade and again he falls silent, wincing. "I'm trying to protect you!  _We're_  trying to protect you. But we can't do that Teto, if you keep running off." he pulls in on himself slightly. "Now come on, we're going back to the hacienda!"

"I'll be back later!" he cheerfully calls with a wave as Lydia pulls him along, leading him across rickety boards and wooden decks.

"Not without an escort you won't." she grumbles. He rolls his eyes, before sighing. The steps beneath his feet become more stable, wood melting into stone and there's that solid leading presence of Lydia's hand the entire time. Pulling him along, assisting him to find the steps back up as they make the climb.

Leaving behind the quiet songs and murmurs, the background lapping of water against wood. Entering into the empty zone, the creaking of the wind as it whistles through empty buildings. Buzzing and chirping, the hum of insects, and a faint moist smell, distant crackling, another broken power pole. Ahead and he can hear the distant muffled sound of music.

Of crowds of people.

They stop and he sighs. Letting her fix his suit, neatening it up for him. Patting it down, and even without sight he knows she's scowling.

"You need to stop doing this Teto. It's not safe for you down there." her voice goes soft, and he crosses his arms uncomfortable, huffing out glaring at nothing. "Don't give me that look! You know why it's not safe, you can't see the danger until it's there Teto!"

"Sí, sí." he sighs. "I know, Mama Lydia, but-"

"No buts Teto!" he pulls back, and there's a sigh. He can feel her shifting, knows she's probably rubbing her forehead. "Por favor Héctor, por favor. Stay where we know you're going to be safe. We understand that you have friends down in the Shantytown... we understand."

"Then why can't I visit them?" he knows he's whining, he knows that there's a perfectly reasonable, understandable reason that he can't visit them. He's never longed for what he used to have so sharply before but still.

He can feel that she's about to answer explain the same thing that she's explained who knows how many times before when there's a shift. They both turn, him just so it seems normal and her almost defensively. There's an awkward shift, a shuffling, the rattling of stone against stone, and an almost miserable sounding groan. He brightens.

"Hola José!"

"Uh... Hola Héctor!" the greeting is returned with a tremble. "So you're required down at the station..." he feels Lydia's intake of breath, her step up and the reassuring curl of a hand on his shoulder. "It's... it's been five years and..."

"The review." Lydia's voice is more a breath, a sort of creeping horror in her voice and he finds himself screwing up his face in absolute perplexed confusion.

"Review?"

There's an awkward silence around him, only the distant chirping of insects. Only the distant echoes of movement, the sounds of the districts so close. There's a sigh, and he can feel Lydia's hand drop. A nervous, almost automatic chuckle from José.

"Sí," her voice is soft, making something in his ribcage curl "your case file review. We have to determine what's to happen from this point, and... make sure that there's nothing foul going on regarding why your family might not have put up your photo."

"I'll... go get the extra paperwork!" José's voice is far away, and he's not oblivious to what that means.

He takes a shuddery breath, feeling rather small. And merely nods his head. Understanding.

* * *

In 1942 a famous musician arrives.

There's a jolting chill, a pain too familiar. A burst of absolute pain and the collapse. He curls in on himself, and there are voices calling around him. A sea of people who're worried. But all he can do is tremble, hugging himself and crying silent trails of tears.

This is a different kind of pain, something so acute.

A pressure in his chest, especially because he knows one other detail. There are steps that approach, and he raises his head just enough. Taking deep gulping breaths of air. A swish of a dress, phalanges the run soothingly through his hair, whispered assurances that it will be alright.

"Hola Officer." he shudders, mind flashing the memory of a smile at him. He closes his eyes, and bows his head.

At least he doesn't have to see it again, but, somehow knowing the poison behind that grin hurts so much worse. He tunes out the hushed conversation between the officer and Lydia. Struggling to push himself to his feet instead. There's a swish in the air, an annoyed squeaking before a familiar weight lands on his head and he takes another shaky breath.

He makes it to his feet.

Limbs weak and trembling.

"Oficial, por favor." he swallows, curling his hands into the wooden railing that's close by. "What do you require of me?" there's a sigh, footsteps that come around to stand in front of him.

"Merely what you remember Héctor. Merely what you remember."

"Sí, I can provide that..." he mumbles. Feeling so very, very tired. There's a memory so distant of paperwork, of the horror of what it stated,  _murder_. And that hurts. "I can provide that." he breathes. One hand moves to rub at a socket, and he tries to ignore the pain in his every limb.

There's a constant burn somewhere in the back of his eyes.

A white hot flare.

* * *

"Oh... Héctor..." he can barely recognize that voice. Just barely remember it from so long ago, and now it's a breath. A kind of horror that he feels deep down in his own aching bones. He keeps his head lowered, choosing not to lift his head. There's years of rejection between them, years of a story that he doesn't know.

He can't know, and now he's not sure what he knows or believes. Has no idea what she knew or didn't know. Again there's the memory of paperwork. Of sitting while José and Lydia read it around him, asked him questions and reviewed his own answers with him so carefully.

The memory of a cutting pain so deep, of an awareness of his own fate, that fatal truth. And everything shattering, crumbling to pieces around him. There's another memory, that trial, standing in front of a crowd that he could hear, whispers and murmurs. Disbelieving accusations. People who screamed at him in the street.

_Liar, liar_

He can taste a bitter burn on his lips, the sweet taint of poison.

He twitches his hands, before folding them in, and curling. Bowing himself in.

"Héctor..." he can feel a hand reaching for him. It stops short and he flinches, not even trusting his own memories anymore. Was it real? Was any of it- "Lo siento."


End file.
